Game Face
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sam wasn't a kid anymore, and he was not the one who needed protecting this time.


**Game Face**  
K Hanna Korossy

Their boots made faint crunching sounds in the snow, and that and their breaths were the only things Dean could hear amidst the trees.

Dean Winchester abhorred a vacuum.

"So, what's a nice water nymph doing in a place like this where the only water's ice or snow?"

"Maybe it got lost?" Sam shrugged. "Or it's some variation on a nymph, a rusalka or a nix. Maybe a khala." Sam's voice was even and didn't show any signs of their nearly two-hour march. Just as the guy had vowed, he'd become the consummate hunter these days, as fit as he'd ever been even with that cast on his wrist.

Privately, Dean still wasn't sure what he thought about that. "Okay," he drawled, "you stay up late looking those up, or they all come from that freaky head of yours?"

Sam inclined his head with a small smile. "The latter, pretty much."

"Yeah, thought so," Dean muttered. "I'm telling you, Sam, if you put half as much effort into picking up women as you did memorizing _The Encyclopedia of the Weird_—"

"Right, picking up women. Like you've been doing?"

It was asked calmly, almost offhandedly, but the bolt hit home like Dean knew Sam expected it to. His recent lack of interest in the female sex had nothing to do with being a wallflower, however, and everything to do with hearing Dad's final words blasting in an endless loop in his head. It took all he had just to keep his game face on with Sam. He didn't have the energy left over to ply the story on women, too.

Yeah, that little tearful confession on an empty mountain road? They were just going to pretend that never happened. For all Sam's preaching about how opening up did you good, Dean was still waiting for every single friggin' moment not to take so much effort.

So, it was all a practiced lie when he grinned back at his brother and said, "Hey, even if I've been a little busy lately, I still get more than you do."

Sam's mouth quirked, his eyes unamused. He saw through way too many of Dean's layers lately, and…Dean wasn't sure what to think about that, either.

Pretty much summed up his life of late, actually, and how much did that suck?

A breeze picked up, the sound almost mournful through the snow-laden trees. Dean clutched his shotgun—iron rounds this hunt—and looked around just as Sam was. Just 'cause the lake was a few klicks north hadn't stopped the nymph, or whatever she was, from hunting in the woods. Which was another thing in Dean's opinion that made the whole nymph theory less likely, but Sam had seemed pretty sure. And these days, Dean was satisfied with following and shooting whatever it was his little brother pointed at. Or killing it with his bare hands, whichever.

A lot was different these days.

The breeze had grown into a full-fledged wind, and they both stopped, wary now. Winds were unlikely in a forest with all the trees to act as breaks, and there was something different about this rush of air. It carried a faint fresh smell on it, and sounded almost….musical in the tops of the fir trees. Dean eyed the woods suspiciously. "We sure this isn't an air elemental?" he asked _sotto voce_.

"No," Sam said tersely, legs slightly spread, body balanced forward, iron knife held loose and ready.

"Oh, well. That's good then," Dean muttered, and went back to searching their surroundings. Tacitly, he and Sam had moved together, almost back-to-back.

Which was why Sam didn't see the frosty air that Dean was breathing out suddenly coalesce into…something. A face, maybe, except it shifted every time he could almost make out features. Whatever it was made him very uneasy, and Dean pressed a little harder back against his brother. "Sam—"

_You are alone._

It was whispered, breathed, planted in his mind more than said, and when Sam whipped around, Dean realized he was reacting to Dean's voice, not…its. "No, I'm not," Dean said flatly.

"Not what?" Sam asked.

_You are alone._

"Quit saying that," Dean growled, teeth gritted and shotgun coming up, except how did you shoot air?

"What's it saying to you?" Sam asked urgently, eyes glued to the ethereal face in front of Dean. So, he could see it but not hear it. That was weird.

And so totally not what he should be worried about right now. "Need to get those transparent eyes checked, freak. I'm not alone, and Sam here's gonna send you back to your watery Hell."

Which was his brother's cue, because Dean's arms felt strangely numb. No, not just his arms, because his head wasn't really wanting to move, either. It was just…it was right there, the scent of fresh, cold water in his face, its voice almost mournful as it breathed, _You are alone._

And then Sam was shouting and there was the distant sound of gunfire, but Dean was barely aware of it anymore, didn't care. Because _you are alone_ filled his head, and it was true, and he didn't even feel it when the water gently pressed his eyes shut and carried him away.

00000

So, it seemed water nymphs weren't picky about what state their water was in.

The room was made of ice. Just six smooth, translucent surfaces, bare of any furnishings or features. The only color in the place was the latrine Dean had finally established in one corner, and, yeah, that wasn't exactly Martha Stewart. Not like he was having to use it much. He could suck just enough moisture off the walls to keep from total dehydration, but there wasn't a lot extra. And after two days, he was starting to think the nymph didn't know what food was.

"You can't keep me in here." Dean prowled the room, sometimes jogging, exercise to keep his blood flowing. There wasn't even a blanket, and lying down seeped cold into his bones. Besides, he was going a little stir crazy, trapped inside this small box with no way out.

"I'm gonna find a way out, or Sam'll beat me to it and find a way in." He was sure of that. Just…a little less sure of the when. He had no memory of how he'd gotten there, and there was no telling how far the nymph or whatever it was had moved him. It wasn't like Sammy could track some kind of freaky teleportation. The kid had to be going out of his mind by now. Not that Dean was doing all that amazingly better.

He paced harder, fist banging lightly on the cold walls. Thank God there was at least some sort of light filtering through the ice or he'd be in total darkness, and his claustrophobia was wound tight enough as it was. The soft azure-white of the place, and the hard truth that Sam wasn't going to give up on him, kept him just this side of freaking out.

Plus, he had a visitor every few hours.

_You are alone. Be with me._

It—_she_—had a body now, one that would've been pretty awesome if it hadn't been frost-blue and a touch transparent. She swirled into being in the corner of the room, all Ice Queen beauty and bearing, and Sam knew his stuff after all because Dean was pretty sure now she was a rusalka. She definitely had the figure of a succubus.

_You are alone._

Dean balanced on the balls of his feet as he faced her, although he'd already tried rushing her once and had passed right through. "No, I'm not." Well, okay, he _was_, but not _really._ "Get a new script, lady."

_Be with me._

"Doesn't look like I have a choice, does it?" Dean growled. He had a couple of theories on what she meant, everything from the literal _choose me_ sense that some entities needed in order to keep their victims, to the more, um, x-rated versions that Dean was pretty sure his brother had prattled on about at some point, something about some versions of water nymphs needing to have sex with a human to become human. Although, he wasn't exactly seeing the draw of that one right now. Plus, hello, water succubus.

_You are alone, _she insisted one more time before fading. Parting thought, as if he needed to be reminded.

"Sam's coming," Dean insisted to the empty room, walking its perimeter once again. "You'll see."

00000

He didn't look up at her anymore when she appeared, his head tucked in close to his wearily shivering body, gaze dull. "Go to Hell," Dean rasped before she could say her spiel, then coughed.

His threats had eventually devolved into demands, then questions. So far, he'd avoided pleading, but it was on the agenda if things didn't change soon. Nothing fazed her, changed her lines, and she was wearing him down.

Five days in, he was already reduced to monosyllables. As the hours had dragged on without food or warmth or real rest, his exercises to keep his blood flowing, his energy to fight her pleas, and finally his immunity had pretty much taken a hike. He was the only one who wasn't going anywhere.

And Sam didn't seem to be showing up.

_You are alone. Be with me._

"No." He didn't even know why he bothered answering. It just used up strength he didn't have to spare, but he couldn't seem to not do it. It was too much like surrender. "Sam'll come."

An unseen breeze blew her dress, outlining some impressive curves. _You are alone_, she breathed, a whole other kind of seduction.

"No," Dean whispered harshly, lungs heavy in his chest. "I'm not."

The three male victims that had drawn the two of them to their hunt had all died of drowning, hence Sam's nymph theories. Dean wondered now if they'd frozen first. Heck, a couple days of her hospitality, and they'd probably drowned themselves. Dean snickered weakly at the thought.

Five days. Dean tucked his numb hands closer and glared at her until she faded out of sight. If Sam didn't find him soon, there wouldn't be much left to find.

Coughing, Dean leaned back against the ice wall and tried not to think.

00000

_You are alone. _

_She's right, son. You shouldn't have let Sam go to school._

"Had to," Dean mumbled. "Wasn' happy."

_And what about you? Are you happy? Now you have Sam back and all to yourself?_

"'S not like that," Dean groaned, trying to push up but his arms collapsing him back to the icy floor in a paroxysm of wet hacking.

_Dad's right, isn't he? You brought me back into hunting because you knew he'd be leaving and you couldn't stand being alone, didn't you, Dean?_

He shook his head, cheek rubbing against the cold. "No…Sammy, no. 'S not…"

_You are alone._

_It's true, Dean. You think I'm going to stick around now that you got Dad killed? You're pathetic._

"Sam," he whispered.

But _you are alone _was all he heard in return.

Black

"Dean."

Something patted his cheek.

"Dean, man, c'mon."

He was jostled, long-dead limbs stirring.

"We need to get him out of here—he's freezing."

"Just a few more minutes, Sam. We have to do this right or she's gonna come after him."

"I know." Breath not-cold on his face. "Dean, can you hear me?"

He flopped against something that thumped quiet and rhythmic against his face.

"Hang on, man. We're getting you out of here."

He listened to the thumping and wondered idly what it was and why it was familiar.

Black

Bobbing. Head rush of not-cold as he bounced up and down.

"Get the… Yeah, there. Jeff, you turn on the heat?"

Something under him juggled him higher, tipping his head back. Something else tucked it down again, against a hard, rising-and-falling plane.

"Car's ready, Sam. You need help with him?"

"No, I got him. Just…make sure she's not following us."

"I'm telling you, dude, she's long gone."

A pleasant heaviness scratched over him, weight upon his leaden body. He sighed, coughing with it.

"Stay with me, Dean. You're safe now, but you have to stay with me." More distantly, "Bobby, he's so cold. I don't know how…"

"He's strong, kid. He wouldn't let a water witch beat him."

The heaviness pulled him down, down, through the ice, into the inviting water below.

Black

Sound rippled through him, a growl he knew by heart. Purr rising and falling, occasional jolts of his body. It was a safe feeling.

"Dean? You with me?"

"He awake yet?"

"I don't know, I keep feeling like…" Coarseness against his skin. Everything not-ice was so rough. "Dean, we're in the car. We found you and we're taking you someplace safe and warm, all right? That bitch won't get to you again."

A hard bump shook something loose, and it was re-tucked around him, cold/not-cold softness palming his face, easing him forward until the soft thumping returned. It inexplicably lulled him.

"Sam, just talked to Marco. Looks like they've lost her tracks."

A spurt of harsh words, far away. Then nearer to him, quiet and soft. "Nothing's gonna happen to you, Dean, I promise. Just rest, okay? We'll take care of you."

His chest contracted wetly, coughs rattling out of him. He couldn't stop, not when liquid poured into his mouth and made him gurgle, not until long after he was wrapped as tight on the outside as he was squeezed on the inside, not until not-cold puffs of air brushed past his cheek like a caress.

"God, Dean," and the sound was so mournful and _wrong_.

Black

Flat, then tipped on his side. Less clothes, then more. Cold, then not-cold.

Something hooked around his legs, pulling him closer. It was crowded and breathing was hard, but every time he shifted, he was firmly pulled back, wrapped more snugly.

"It's okay, Dean. Just have to warm you up. Don't fight me, man."

Something damp and painfully not-cold pressed against the back of his neck, was tucked under his locked arms, pressed up against… He whined low in his constricted throat.

Solid bands around his arms and back—one yielding, the other hard and with edges that scratched—locked him closer, kept him from rattling apart.

"Shh, try to relax. You're gonna be okay, just need to get you warm. It'll be better in a minute."

The cold grew, shaking him so hard, his teeth clattered and his lungs stuttered.

"I'm sorry she had you so long. We tried to find you…" Something rubbed against his hair, the top of his head. "You're so cold, dude, how can you be so cold?"

His body seized, throat closing up…then suddenly relaxing, shudders easing. Not-cold becoming…warm?

He coughed weakly, got a murmur in return. "Gonna be okay…getting warmer now…gonna be okay…"

Black

He couldn't breathe.

The weight in his chest wasn't letting up, clamping down until it felt his ribs could barely move. Turning, warmth, wetness: none of it helped.

"He needs a hospital, Bobby." He was lifted higher, leaned forward, leaving warm to slump against warm, but he just convulsed against it.

"We can't protect him there, Sam. Maybe if we get him some O2…"

The breath whooped out of him, nothing pushing in to replace it. He curled, chasing after the last of the air, the pressure against his back feeling just as frantic.

"No. If we don't get him some help now, we're not going to have anything _to_ protect." Something slid under his legs, lifted.

He was dizzy, the change in altitude competing with the inability to breathe. He choked weakly into heated, soft material.

"Hang on, Dean, just try to breathe slow and shallow, all right? You can do it. Just focus on me. I'm gonna fix this."

"I'll get the car."

He couldn't breathe, and the encroaching dark took over completely.

Black

Slow rub against his hand, small circles.

He was propped up, but against yielding softness this time, and the air smelled sweet. Not like _her_, even as it streamed into his nose, went down his windpipe. He sucked it in, greedy, and started gasping and hacking again.

The soft motion stopped, the grip on his hand tightening, moving up his arm.

"Hey, hey. Dean, don't fight it, okay? That's to help you breathe."

Touch of his face, adjusting something over his mouth, then sliding over his eyes, up and back against his hair.

"Just got a little sick there, but you're getting better, I promise. We'll be out of here soon—I know how you feel about hospitals. 'Least this is only a clinic…"

He could breathe if he slowed down, quit fighting and just lay there. Let the warm heaviness be pulled back over him, let himself drift on the soft syllables.

"Gave me a scare there, you jerk. You're not supposed to drown _after _we rescue you."

The small circles started up again, good pressure, helping him breathe instead of crushing him. Soothing.

"Go back to sleep, all right? I'll be here."

Black

Rumble and purr again, a tickle down the length of his body. He was laid flat, but his head was raised, resting on something solid and warm—always warm—splayed pressure across his back keeping him from sliding off at turns.

"He's looking better." The voice was up ahead, the answer much closer and above him.

"Yeah. Doc thought he should probably wake up soon." The weight on his back slid up to the nape of his neck, loose and gentle. "I think he's kinda here though already, huh, Dean?"

"Kid always did like his sleep."

Soft huff of a laugh. It made the surface under his head tighten and shift. "Yeah."

He coughed, weak and less tearing now, felt his back patted.

"You're all right, man, just relax. We'll be home soon, but you probably like being in your baby, huh? Yeah…"

Car. They were in a—the—car.

His pillow moved again. "Just a few more minutes, Dean, then we'll get you back to bed."

And he knew that whisper anywhere.

Black

"She's here."

"Stay in the circle with him, Bobby. She gets past me, make sure she doesn't get past you, you got it?"

"Yeah, Sam. Just—"

Loud noises, and the rushing of wind. It smelled like rain and wet moss and fresh snow. The breath of air made him shiver. _You are alone._

"You can't have him. You're trapped here, and your stream will be dammed and dried up soon. It's over."

A whipshot sound and growing wind. The voice rose in battle against it, angry and hard. Freezing water dripping on his face like tears, and the paradox of warmth and protection hovering over him, the smell of gunpowder and motor oil and sweat.

_You are alone!_

Another shot. "No!" And then a hand gripped his, hard.

His mouth moved a few times before it made a noise. And even as the gale blew the words away, he knew they'd been heard. "…not…'lone…"

Silence fell with all the finality of a dropped curtain.

He barely heard it break under the soft "Dean?" before he fell away.

Black

The sound rose and fell. It took time to make out, to separate it into notes. Metallica. "Nothing Else Matters"…a little off-key. Sam.

The humming suddenly broke off, and fingers moved against the inside of his wrist. "Dean? You with me?"

He traced the last few notes under his breath. They fell into place like puzzle pieces.

A chuckle. "Yeah, I thought you'd pay attention to that." His hand was turned over, flat on the bed, the comfortable weight of fingers across its back. "Come on, dude, open your eyes, all right?"

He sighed, felt his diaphragm put up a halfhearted protest with a breathy cough.

"Easy," came the chide immediately, a hand flat on his sternum as if he'd tried to sit up. "She did a number on you, big brother—take it slow. But she's dead, and you're gonna be fine." The palm on his chest pushed lightly, the rim of the cast along its edge tickling. "You gonna wake up now? Tell me to shut up?"

It took him even longer to find his eyes than it did his tongue, his nervous system totally screwed up and mixing his signals. His hand twitched, earning a nearly painfully tight grasp, then his lips. Lifting his eyelids felt like a solid day's work.

And there was his reward. Stubbled chin, baggy eyes, uncombed hair, and the same soft, earnest smile as when he was a kid.

It grew even as he watched. "Hey. About time, man. Didn't know if you were still in there."

The words were a jumble in his head, but there was an old joke in there somewhere, a tie to their past. Tiny hands on his face, eyes an inch from his own in the dim of midnight. _You still in there, Dean? _

He swallowed, his throat sore and painful. The three letters came out like a rusty gate's rasp. "Sam."

The smile took over the worn face, crinkling it. "Yeah, I'm here. Y'all right? You were pretty sick there for a while."

He snorted and let his eyes fall shut. It was warm, and the bed was soft, and Sam was safe. It was as all right as he got.

His brother was still practically holding his hand, but he couldn't seem to resent it because it was tacit reminder he _wasn't_ alone. This time when he faded out, he did it willingly.

00000

Different eyes met his this time when they opened.

"Bobby?" Dean murmured, lids sinking momentarily shut because he didn't seem to have the energy to talk and look at the same time.

"Good to see you back, Dean." He seemed to be making everybody smile these days. "You feelin' all right?"

Dean blinked. "Tired." The word stretched out to three syllables on his tongue. "Sam?"

Bobby shifted, and Dean could see his brother past the older man now, stretched out on a cot along the wall. His casted arm and one leg hung off, like he'd either been too weary to get all the way in bed or was too big to fit. Probably more the former, if the agape mouth was anything to go by.

Dean shifted his gaze back to Bobby, noticing the extra lines in the older man's face. Bobby nodded. "Long couple of weeks," he wearily admitted.

Dean frowned at him.

Bobby snorted. "Boy, it's been thirteen days since you got taken. Your brother," a nod toward the sleeper on the cot, "tore up heaven and earth looking for you. Tracked down what took you, came up with a ritual even _I'd_ never heard of, then figured out drying up her home would kill her. 'Bout lost you to her twice along the way, but Sam's got those stubborn Winchester genes same as you and your dad. Just…wouldn't take no for an answer."

Dean's eyes slid back to his brother. Sam was so exhausted, he barely moved a muscle in his sleep. The longish hair, usually parted and swept aside these days, hung into his face, and his features were slack. It made him look even younger than usual, and Dean struggled to match the image with the story.

"You want some water?"

Dean looked a _yes_, energy already ebbing, and managed a few sips from a straw before that got to be too much, too.

Bobby clasped his shoulder warmly. "Get some sleep. You've got some recovering to do." He stood and stretched as he shuffled into the bathroom.

Dean watched Sam with slitted eyes.

"It wasn't that big a deal, Dean."

He blinked slow.

Sam's eyes opened to meet his across the expanse of the room. "You've done the same for me. A lot," he whispered.

Yeah, but that was his job. He was supposed to be the protector.

Sam smiled sadly at him. "Go back to sleep. Bobby was right, you're gonna need a lot of rest."

His brother was still watching him when Dean's eyes shut and stayed that way.

"You're not alone," the quiet whisper followed him, and Dean would have started awake at that one if he hadn't already been too far gone.

00000

"Oh, and try not to get taken by any more witches, all right? They only want one thing."

Dean grinned up from the bed at his old friend, one brow lifted in a way he'd never quite been able to tease his father.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I give up," he grumbled and headed for the door, tossing Sam a glare as he went. "Good luck with that asinine brother of yours. You'll need it."

Sam was smiling, too, dimples deep. "Yeah, thanks."

The older hunter stopped at the entrance to the room. "You two call me if you need any help, you hear me? Probably get yourselves killed on your own." The last was a mutter as he left.

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said fondly after him, but his voice still wasn't that strong and probably didn't carry. Sam echoed him more loudly, then shut the door after Singer. He took a deep breath and looked at Dean.

So. Finally just the two of them again.

Dean still wasn't quite sure how many hunters Sam had assembled to go after what had indeed turned out to be a rusalka, an old and powerful one. But Jefferson and Marco had been in the day before to say their goodbyes, several others sending their farewells through Sam or Bobby. All experienced, mostly older hunters, and from what Dean had gathered, they'd all followed Sam's lead. It was pretty darn impressive, and more than a little bewildering.

Dean leaned back against the pile of pillows Sam had assembled for him. He still wasn't sure where they'd come from, any more than he knew where _he _was exactly, but that just hadn't seemed that important while he'd slept and rested, breaking up the monotony with the occasional nap.

Sam always in the room when he woke, either sleeping on the cot or reading by Dean's bed.

His brother stepped forward now, jaw working a little like he was trying to get something, or figure out how to say it. Great, here it came.

But all he asked was, "You wanna watch some TV?"

"Read my mind," Dean answered without missing a beat, relieved. He eased over half on his side for a better view of the set perched on the dresser by the far wall.

Sam crossed in front of him and snapped it on, then retreated to his chair at Dean's bedside. Long fingers rubbed a jeans-clad leg as Sam distractedly stared at the TV.

He'd been…quiet since Dean had been awake enough to notice. Not a pained silence or an awkward one, just thoughtful, serious. Like Dad, the original Man of Few Words, and Dean's throat closed a little at the constant reminder of their father that his brother was.

That wasn't always a bad thing, though. Sam's tenacity had certainly saved Dean's bacon this time, and there were some huge, important ways Sam was different, too. Like the fact that Dean could talk to him.

He was pretty sure that was their mom in Sam.

Dean cleared his throat.

Sam's eyes immediately swung to him, hand stilling. "You want some water?"

"Nah, I'm good," Dean said. His brother nodded and turned back to the inane sitcom that was playing.

Why was this so hard? Sam was certainly ready and willing to listen to him, had practically pleaded with Dean to talk to him. And for all Dean's doubts that that would magically solve everything, he longed to spill some of it, to relieve the pressure that was suffocating him. But the hardest secret of all, he was sworn not to tell, and the rest… He was the big brother, the one who was supposed to be strong, the one who could show no fear so that Sam wouldn't be scared. Dean had been keeping up that act for over twenty years.

It'd been no scared kid who'd led a friggin' battalion to rescue Dean, however. Who'd put the pieces together and found him, then planted himself solidly between the vengeful rusalka and Dean. Who hadn't left his side ever since, more, Dean suspected unhappily, because Sam knew he needed him there than for his own peace of mind. This wasn't someone who would break if he was leaned on. In fact, Dean had a feeling it would just make Sam stand taller.

Funny how he could be both proud and panicked at the thought.

Dean focused on the TV and took a breath, quelling the lingering desire to cough. Or bolt. "Hey, Sam?"

His brother glanced over at him. "Yeah."

Dean's lips flattened, eyes wanting to shift over to his brother but not quite making it. He hemmed a little. "Thanks. For, uh…" He made a vague motion with his hand.

Sam's whole face softened into a smile. "Don't mention it."

He'd never lost hope, never left even when Dean had done his best to push him away. Maybe…Sam could not only handle this, but even needed it a little. Not as a little brother, just as Dean's brother. And that was a reason to try that Dean could accept.

"I started to make a move on Jo," he blurted out over the canned laughter from the TV. "When we first hit the Roadhouse."

He could feel the snap of Sam's full attention to him, the TV quickly muted.

"But, uh…" Dean chewed his lip, gave Sam a sideways look. "Every time I did, all I could think about was…"

"Dad," Sam said, quiet. Understanding.

Dean nodded.

He couldn't go on very long. Neither his lungs nor his soul was ready for that. But he shared a few things with Sam, some of the memories and some of the grief. Just to take the worst of the edge off. To test the waters. To silently plead for Sam not to give up on him.

And his brother sat there patiently and compassionately listening and not breaking and not even, thank God, pitying him, just _getting_ it. The only other person in the world who maybe could. By the time Dean was exhausted and hoarse, it was all lighter, easier to bear. Which probably shouldn't have surprised him at all, because sharing with Sam had always made everything easier.

And as sleep pulled him under, more comfort than escape now with Sam's weight dipping the mattress at his feet and his hand resting on Dean's ankle, he realized the ice witch had really had it wrong.

He wasn't alone at all.

**The End**


End file.
